Maggie, the Evolution

One of the pleasures of cable TV is the never-ending supply of popular scientific infotainment pearls. Today, the Discovery Channel provided me with the finally completely decoded truth about sex and attraction. For real. I admit, I have failed to find out the name of this groundbreaking broadcast – but believe me, it doesn’t matter. Just open any magazine with “science” somewhere in the title, look up a random article about sex, and you will stumble upon at least a dozen of the claims made in this show.

For that matter: Open a women’s magazine from the 50ies, and you’ll find similar views.

It’s amazing how comfortably some scientists blurt out sentences like “biologically, the male looks for attractiveness and youthful appearance in the female, whereas the woman is drawn towards masculinity and a high social status.” Right – because women don’t give a damn about looks; but when we hear the roar of a fat Mercedes, our hormones go crazy. Sorry, sister, forget years of emancipation – it’s biology. Sad, but true. We don’t have to break our pretty heads about things like social patterns or cultural circumstances. The predominant “Mercedes-gene” is installed in us since the stone ages.

More refined arguments at least try to differentiate. They grant that “masculinity” or “social status” has been defined in different ways throughout the ages, and that beauty is a cultural concept. No – wait! Let’s not forget the waist-thighs radius, according to which male attraction is triggered by the proportion of the woman’s thighs against the amplitude of her waist. Rubens got it all wrong when he painted all those overweight chicks in the late 16th century – they must have been considered unattractive even then, because their “radius” was quite disproportionate. People probably bought his pictures out of a morose fascination for ugliness, or pity. Take the Mona Lisa – her lips are much too thin, her skin pasty white – not exactly a sign of healthy youthfulness.

By the way, the human nose has gone through a remarkable career in the past few years, recently ascending to the position of top analyst for interpersonal compatibility. According to the Discovery Channel, it is not only the receptor for sexual attractants such as oxytocin – it altogether picks our partners for us. For instance, it distinguishes levels of blood relationship: our relatives don’t smell good, so as to inhibit us from reproducing with our cousins (hmm… cause that NEVER happened in history…). The nose dictates us basically everything we need to consider: Is the person in question healthy? Stable? Ambitious? Masculine (or, on the other hand, youthful and pretty)? A good father? A kind mother?
Smokers are fucked, of course. Since cigarettes seriously reduce our sense of smell, these poor persons are prone to get their partner choices all mixed up. All the better, maybe – they are doomed to die of lung cancer, anyway. At least I finally know who to blame for shitty relationships: I could just sue Marlboro for my last love fiasco.

In short, and I quote: “Sex appeal is a mixture of chemistry, heredity and genes.”
Biology dictates our choices. We are basically just mindless worms, and every time our hormone balance burps, we twitch into that direction or the other, forgetting everything we have learned or experienced along the way.

Another favourite of mine is the need to tie sexual attraction (and sex in general) to procreation. Some biologists try to understand sexuality exclusively through our capacity to have children. A man is chosen as a partner because he is a potential “good father,” and a woman has to give off vibes of immanent motherhood in order to be sexually hot.
Now, what about deviant sexual pleasures, such as fetishes, which do not require penetration? What about oral sex? Anal sex? A little BDSM action?

And what about the pill? Shouldn’t a woman using the pill emanate fumes of utter unattractiveness, since procreation is out of the picture? I mean, the pill messes with our hormones – how come sensitive male nostrils (which, after all, take in all the other hormonal signs) don’t vibrate with disgust whenever they are confronted with a reproduction-unwilling female specimen?

Homosexuality is another “oh-oh” to “sex-for-reproduction” fundamentalists. As Keely Savoie points out in her essay “Unnatural Selection,” homosexuality is not just a human deviation of the path of nature. It is very common among the animal kingdom. Snakes, monkeys, geese – they all appreciate a little same-sex action now and then. Even the common fruit fly displays homoerotic aspirations.

In the light of this scientific research, it’s hard to maintain the view that sex can only be understood in terms of the biological need for reproduction. Keely Savoie, a natural scientist herself, has a theory as to why her colleagues seem so eager to tie sex to potential children: Scientists are no gods that proclaim absolute truths, given to them from evolution herself. Scientists are primarily humans. Their research is based on presumptions. And those presumptions come from the same sources as everybody else’s: cultural knowledge, subconscious stereotypes, societal values. If I start an empirical study by asking the question: “How come men are more promiscuous than women,” I don’t question whether this is really true. The results, of course, can only provide me with an answer to that specific question. Maybe they will show me different approaches – perhaps women search for a stable partner, because they give birth and run the danger to be stuck with the child, perhaps men want to spread their semen as widely as possible, etc. etc. But I do not examine the premise: whether it is really true that men are more promiscuous. Therefore, all the results I get will be biased by this pre-formed stereotype, which I might not even be aware of.

Evolution, I am told, has a purpose. Which is, to perpetuate the race, plain and simple. Evolution knows best. It knows what it’s doing. It’s almost as if it had a mind and soul on its own: From a mere concept to understand and classify certain natural processes, it developed into a purposeful, wilful actor – it became a persona. Therefore, I will give it a name. I will call it Maggie, the Evolution. I picture Maggie in a white apron, cooking dinner for her husband, pregnant and already thinking of ways to conceive yet another child.

What did Maggie the Evolution give me a brain and the ability to question existing structures for, then?

Discovery Channel – answer please!

www.explicities.blogspot.com

Ich hab einen neuen Blog - einen Sexblog :)

www.explicities.blogspot.com

Check it out!

Zunäxt ein Gedichterl... in Rohform

Ballad

Now, since her picture won’t be fading into grey
He’s filled his time collecting trophies of his own
He needs to stop his body turning into stone
The victim role is done for him, he’s on the prey
For bits of evidence that he won’t die alone.

I was wrapped up in drama, more precisely, in myself,
And while my life was slowly dripping all away
I started looking for a friend, someone who’d stay
In short, I was quite desperately in search for mental health
A bad time to be found by someone, I might say.

You know: Shit happens. And it tends to hit the fan.
I couldn’t really say it was a lightning bolt
No, it was more a very gentle, tender jolt
A friendly laugh just cracks me like a love song never can –
Well, I don’t blame him, it was not his fault.

At first, I used him as the band-aid he’d refused to be
See, I was struggling to get rid of a gigantic bloody stain
And since his arms felt strong enough to keep me sane
I wasn’t scared to pay the bail, and it was quite a handsome fee
But I was laughing at my fears, and ready for the pain.

Now, life keeps one or two surprises up its sleeve
I should have known, ‘cause I’d been in his place before
But endorphins make greedy; I demanded more
I knew my smile eventually would make him leave
It wasn’t love. That’s not what he’d been aiming for.

Oh we all lie, you see, and most convincing to ourselves
The cup of victory is filled with mind-blowingly toxic wine
It made him hold me in my sleep, so I believed him to be mine
The storm died down, and he thought, this is how affection smells
It was a workday’s sweat, no more. He won the game. Yes, he did fine.

His irritated look is what will stay with me
When he first realized there’s nothing more to chase
That I was open-eyed and staring in his face
He turned away distressed, he couldn’t stand to see
The shadow of her lurking presence in my gaze.

Farewell, my friend, I’ll say a quiet prayer for you,
But focus on myself for now, because I’m pretty lost
We had a shot, I guess. But anyway, the coin is tossed.
Please know I value that you’ve tried, I really do
And I would try myself, I would, but not at any cost.

Auferstehung + Umwidmung

Nachdem ich seit über einem halben Jahr nix mehr geschrieben hab, werd ich diesen Blog einfach missbrauchen, um mich literarisch zu ergießen. In Fremdsprache.
Feedback willkommen!

Harlem celebrates Obama und andere Festivitäten

Spontaneus Harlem Street Party am Abend des 4. November. Bin von mindestens drei Fremden umarmt worden --- und trommeln, tanzen und singen. Sooooo cooooool...

Und irgendwann gegen Mitternacht hat die MTA (das Unternehmen, das die U-Bahnen managt) beschlossen, ein paar Waggons durch Harlem zu transportieren. Das nenn ich effektive Planung.

(Ich glaub ja, sie wollten einfach Teil der Party sein...)

(Nein, eigentlich glaub ich, sie wollten mir damit PERSÖNLICH was sagen. Ich war nämlich um 11.00, als Obama zum Präsidenten erklärt wurde, gerade in der U-Bahn und hab mich grün und blau geärgert. Was genau sie mir damit sagen wollten, weiß ich allerdings nicht, aber wohl sowas in der Art: Sitzt du nicht in der U-Bahn, kommt die U-Bahn zu dir. Oder so.)

HALLOWEEN

Ha! Wenn das keine Überleitung ist. Halloween in der U-Bahn:

Halloween-Party(s) (ich bin Pirat):

Obamastic

Obama is elected president ! ! !

Ja, ich weiß, nicht grade latest news, aber es war mir ein Bedürfnis, mit diesem Statement das lange Schweigen meines Blogs zu brechen.

Ich behaupte ja, dass mein unermüdlicher Einsatz am Wahltag entscheidend zu seiner Wahl beigetragen hat - ja, ich möchte noch weiter gehen und die These aufstellen, dass ich das berühmte Schärflein war (natürlich mit Unterstützung meines unermüdlichen Kampfgenossen Comandante Alberto Posch, der bekennend linkslinken Zecke).

Die Hintergründe:

Am 4. November sind wir nach Pottstown, Pennsylvania gefahren, um den Swing-State mit dem loderenden Feuer unserer Argumentationskraft sowie der bestechenden Logik der guten Sache an sich auf Obamas Seite zu ziehen.

Pottstown, Pennsylvania, hält alles, was der Name verspricht:

Immerhin war Herbst.

Wir sind also von Tür zu Tür gelaufen: "Hi! I'm working for the Obama Campaign and just wondered if you already had a chance to vote?" (Smile blink blink)

"No? Oh, but you are going to, right?" (Smile smile blink blink blink)

"Well this is a historic election, you surely want to be a part of it? Do you need a ride to the polls?" (Blink blink smile blink smile offener Gesichtsausdruck)

Ich glaube ja, dass wir mit unserem Strahlelächeln an die zweieinhalb Leute zu den Wahlurnen bewegen konnten. Mindestens.

Mag. Dr. A. Posch telefoniert mit der Zentrale. Strategiebesprechung.

Ja, wir waren schon sehr wichtig.

Here comes the bride... have a chicken!

Bin soeben am Fastfood-Hühnergrill in meinem Block vorbeigegangen. "El Pollo Dorado". Normalerweise dawischt mich da immer eine Bachata-Schallwelle - nicht dieses Mal. Vielmehr meinte mein verwundertes Ohr, Orgelmusik aus der Konserve zu erkennen.
Feiern die seit neuem das Dahinscheiden ihrer Hühner?
Weit gefehlt. Es war vielmehr ein fröhlicher Anlass. Erkennbar durch blau-weiß-gelbe Ballons, die im Hühnergrilldunst schwebten (eine zweifelhafte Farbkombination, übrigens, vor allem, wenn es sich um Pastellfarben handelt).

Eine Hochzeit im "Pollo Dorado". Ich pack mein Leben nicht mehr.

I LOVE NEW YORK.